


Corellian Twisters

by bornofstars



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Padawan Anakin Skywalker, Parent Darth Vader, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-02-23 13:32:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23645518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bornofstars/pseuds/bornofstars
Summary: Luke's first time drinking gets out of hand. Lucky his father's off-planet...right?
Relationships: Luke Skywalker & Darth Vader, Luke Skywalker & Han Solo, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 22
Kudos: 381





	1. Chapter 1

“Kid, I can’t thank you enough for this.” 

Han Solo passes off the stabiliser kit to the large Wookie next to him, who promptly shoves it into his satchel.

“It’s nothing.” Luke says, though he feels heat rise on his face at the praise. 

Han begins to fumble through his jacket pockets, pulling out a handful of credits. 

“No, no.” Luke assures him. He didn’t feel right taking money for such a small thing. Han didn’t realise how many spare parts he had sitting at home in his workshop. Or how many credits he had, for that matter. “I don’t want your credits.” 

Han looks up with a raised eyebrow. “I admire the modesty, but I don’t feel right taking this for free.” 

“It’s fine, I want you to have it!” Luke insists. He crosses his arms, cold in the evening air of Coruscant. They were by the lower levels, where Luke had first met the older man. Han Solo is a blaster-slinging, sabacc playing, low-down smuggler who would probably give his father an aneurism if they ever were to meet. 

He’s the coolest person Luke knows. 

Luke feels far older than seventeen as he stands across from Han, who seems to be in contemplation as to how to convince him to take the credits. They look like underworld dealers, all mysterious and dangerous, he imagines. Chewbacca gives a growl, and Han shoots him an annoyed glance in return. 

“Go back to the ship and set up the stabilisers, you fur ball.” Han says. “I’ll be with you in a minute.” 

Chewbacca gives a parting grunt to Luke. Luke smiles, - he likes the Wookie, but it’s hard to tell if the feeling is mutual. 

“Say, kid,” Han says. “I got an idea.” His eyes are fixed on something behind Luke’s shoulder, and Luke turns to see what has caught his attention. 

The neon pulsing light in front of the cantina makes him squint. 

“I’m underage,” Luke says quickly. “Sorry.” 

Han lets out a laugh. “Ah, the naiveté of youth.” He says it like he's an ancient wise man, making Luke roll his eyes. He lays an arm around Luke’s neck, and begins to guide him over towards the cantina. 

“You’re only a few years older than me.” Luke replies, trying his best not to sound like a whiny kid. Despite the fondness he hears in Han’s voice, it irks him that he thinks he’s so young and innocent. 

When they had first met, Han had come off his swoop bike and was furiously cursing out some Rodian who’d allegedly been at fault. Luke had come over, attracted by the commotion, and then by the lure of a real Razalon FC-20 model. They’d got to talking as Han had nursed a bloody nose, and occasionally bumped into each other looking for parts and machinery in the lower markets of Coruscant’s underbelly. It wasn't often - Han had his own ship, much to Luke's awe. He was constantly off-world, having all kinds of adventrues.

When Han had casually asked for a stabiliser kit, Luke had brought it to him with more than a little eagerness. 

“I may be young in body, but my soul is ancient and wise.” Han says with a flourish of his spare hand. “Come on, I’ll buy you a drink. Least I can do.” 

Luke thinks about pointing out that he’s never had a drink before. It wasn’t like he had anything against it; it all looked rather glamorous on the holonet, and he’d been to plenty of parties where diplomats and socialites sipped from flute glasses. But he’s temporarily silenced by the ambiance of the cantina, a place he’s never before stepped foot in. 

There’s music playing from some speakers in the walls, and the murmuring of conversation is a mix of every dialect Luke can think of, plus more he does not recognise. There’s humans, Twi’leks, Ithorians, even a lone Zabrak in the back corner. Drinks of every colour and consistency are bubbling in people’s hands and claws. The smell of so many people in such close proximity is almost overwhelming. 

  
Luke feels very out of place. 

Han, on the other hand, looks completely at home. He herds Luke into an empty booth in a shady back corner, pausing twice to greet some of the patrons stood by a holovid of Malastare Pod-racing.  
“Stay here, I’ll be back in a second.” Han yells in his ear over the pulsing music. 

“Okay!” Luke yells back. 

He looks around, watching an exchange of credits and death-sticks in a handshake. An Imperial officer is lounging in a booth blissfully with a Twil’ek on either arm. For a second, he worries about being recognised, but figures the officer would probably never report him. Having to explain why he was in the cantina in the first place probably wasn’t something he wanted to do. Luke thanks the stars that his father is off-planet. He would know the moment Luke got home that he had been somewhere he shouldn’t have. If he knew where Luke is now…he shuddered at the thought. 

“Here we go.” Han says, returning seemingly out of thin air as he slides back into the booth. He pushes a frosted glass with a dark liquid fizzing inside. He takes a deep sip of his own before speaking. 

“I got you a Corellian twister.” He says in explanation. “Not too strong for a rookie like yourself.” 

Luke is thankful for the low hue of lights that cover his reddening face.“I’m not a rookie!” 

Han smiles over the rim of his glass, but it’s not a nasty smirk that he sometimes gives him. 

“Sure. I bet you’ll be drinking me under the table in no time.” 

Luke steels himself. He looks down at the frothing liquid, which bubbles slightly back at him. He takes a deep breath, and as nonchalantly as he can, takes a hesitant sip. 

  
“It tastes like juice!” Luke exclaims, looking up at Han in disbelief. 

Han laughs. “Yeah, but it’s certainly a lot stronger than your average Jawa juice. So take it easy.” 

The flashing lights make Han’s teeth glow multi-coloured, and Luke smiles back. He feels very adult and mature, changing his grip around the glass, just like Han’s. 

* * *

Luke does not take it easy. 

He tries to drink slowly, aware of how the alcohol was going to affect him. He’s never drank before, but it’s so difficult to pace himself. Han drinks like it’s water, getting up twice to top up before Luke’s even half-way through his first cup. Corellians, Han tells him some time later, are notorious drinkers. 

“Corellian brandy,” Han winces, taking a sip of his amber liquid that he’s just bought. “That’ll put some hair on your chest.” 

Luke, feeling very fuzzy and warm, looks at Han’s glass in wonder. “Let me try.” 

A wash of hesitation flits over the other man’s face, but he shrugs it off. “What the hell,” He says, pushing the glass over to Luke, leaving a wet trail of condensation on the table. 

Luke takes a tentative sip, and then shudders at the burning sensation in his throat. Han lets out an uproarious laugh, louder than Luke’s ever heard, and pats him hard on the back. 

  
“Thattaboy!” He howls. “What a face! Priceless.” 

The next hour passes in a blur. 

One minute, Luke and Han are talking, the next they’re both three drinks down and are howling at something that Luke’s already forgotten. He’s stuck to the Twisters, that supposedly wouldn’t get him too drunk. So why does he feel so dizzy and light? Is this what being drunk is? Luke feels like he could run a marathon, decimate a duelling droid with his lightsaber, and make the Kessel Run all at the same time. At some point, Chewbacca comes back to check on Han, and lets out a series of disapproving growls, which Luke finds hilarious. Chewie brings him a glass of water, which takes away some of the buzz, but Luke hardly notices the difference. He spends fifteen minutes leaning on his fury shoulder, and by the time he gets his baring he’s sat watching Han play a sabacc game against a group of spacers. Luke watches in a haze, as though he’s underwater. He feels blissful, a dopey smile on his face as he absently keeps sipping from his Twister. 

The next thing he knows, Han has stood in outrage, flipping the cards and credit chips. Luke is reacting blindly, standing also. Chewie is by the bar, Luke recalls dimly. He couldn't even remember him leaving the booth. There’s yelling, accusations of cheating, but Luke is too busy concentrating on how to stand properly without slumping back into the booth. 

A chair is flying, and then glasses are being swilled, and Luke knocks an incoming cocktail to the floor with an affronted “Hey!” 

Chewie pulls them both out of the fight by the scruffs of their necks. 

“Let me at him! I had him!” Han yells indignantly, struggling to get out of his grip. 

Luke simply giggles, then groans. “Ooh, I feel dizzy.” 

Han looks over to him, and Luke sees two twin Han’s, narrowing their four eyes in suspicion. 

  
“Stars, kid.” He says, as though only just noticing him. “You’re _sauced.”_

“Well, yeah.” Luke hiccups. “You gave me all those drinks!” His voice sounds funny, like his tongue is swollen. 

The bartender is giving them death glares from behind the counter, and Han seems to get the hint. He puts an arm around Luke, but unlike before, his arm isn’t heavy. It’s like it’s not there at all. It’s a jarring sensation, but he lets himself be walked back into the cold, now pitch air of outside. 

Once the stuffy atmosphere fades away, Luke feels about ten times drunker than he had before. 

“Let’s get you home.” Han says. He goes to step away, and Luke slumps rapidly back, not even reacting to catch himself. Han hauls him back upright before he can face-plant into the pavement. 

“Those Twisters really get ya,” Han says to Chewbacca over Luke’s prone body. “I should have told him how strong they really are. Now let’s get him a cab speeder.” 

It takes fifteen minutes to coax Luke’s address from him. He feels warm and sleepy. If they let him down, he’d curl up right there on the pavement and close his eyes. The one remaining sober brain cell he has rigidly stops him from blurting out just where they were sending him home to, or more importantly, who the lived with. He’s never told Han or Chewie who his father is. Call him crazy, but telling your smuggler friends that your dad was the Dark Lord of the Sith might cause a little tension. 

They get him lugged into a taxi-speeder, and tell him to make sure he drinks water and to maybe take a stim shot in the morning. Luke blearily thanks them both for the best night. 

  
“The best night _ever.”_ He slurs. Han snorts, rumples his hair, and passes the driver a handful of credits. 

“Thanks for the stabiliser!” Han calls as the speeder begins it’s ascent into the upper air lanes. 

The movement of flying, usually such a soothing sensation, makes Luke’s stomach roll. He gives a groan, leaning against the door, slumping over his seatbelt. He feels like his guts are churning with acid, but his eyes are too droopy for him to open them. 

The driver looks back at him in concern at the sound. 

“You’re not going to hurl, are you?” He asks worriedly. 

  
“I don’t think so,” Luke says sleepily. “Just…fly smoothly please.” 

“Alright, but if you do, you got to pay for the upholstery.” 

Luke thinks of his father receiving _that_ particular bill. He thanks his stars once more that he’s off-planet for the next two days. 

* * *

“Sir. We’re here.” 

Luke opens his eyes, unaware that they weren’t still moving. He takes several attempts to undo his seat buckle, and when he finally succeeds he sees the driver watching him nervously. 

“How much do I owe you?” Luke mumbles, trying to get the world to stop spinning. Is he sure they’ve stopped? He feels like he’s spinning around in a dog-fight in space. 

“Your friend already paid.” The driver says. “Please, sir, I have other customers.”  


Luke is drunk, but he hears the underlying _Please, don’t throw up all over my seats,_ and obliges him with a call of thanks. He almost falls out onto the landing pad, righting himself at the last moment. 

The hangar is dark as Luke approaches. He walks slowly, fumbling around to avoid falling. He’s almost at the door that leads to his living quarters when he takes a spectacular dive over a speeder-jack and almost hits the ground with his face. He catches himself at the last moment, taking all the shock into his hands and knees. The pain barely registers. He feels like he just fell onto a mattress. 

“Ow,” Luke still says to himself. “Whoops.” 

“Master Luke!” C3PO says, coming into the hangar after hearing the commotion of Luke’s stumble.  
  
“Hello.” Luke mumbles. “I’m really tired, 3PO, I’m going to go to bed.”  


“Of course, it is rather late, after all. I’ve come to tell you that Master Vader has returned from Byss. He’d like to see you.” 

Luke’s stomach churns more, if that’s possible. His mind is racing, but all of his thoughts are slow and foggy, and can barely string one coherent thought together. All he can hear is alarm bells in his ears as he tries to keep his composure. 

  
“Uh, tell him I’ll talk to him in the morning,” Luke says lamely. He brushes past the protocol droid and tries to walk as straight as he can. “I’m not feeling well.” 

  
C3PO calls after him, but Luke is already gone. 

Luke enters his identification into his room, getting it wrong twice before it finally goes through. 

He lets out a sigh as he enters his room, wary of the piles of clothes and junk waiting for him on the floor ahead of him. 

“Hello, my son.” 

Luke just about jumps out of his skin. In the dark, he sees the flashing lights of his father’s suit. How had he not noticed him there? 

“Hello.” Luke’s voice comes out three pitches higher than usual. He clears his throat, still stood in the darkness. “You’re home early.” 

Vader stands from the bed he had sat on. Luke dimly feels the force pulse, and the lights come on. 

They stare at each other in silence for several seconds. Vader’s force presence seems to freeze up before washing over Luke. Luke does his absolute best not to appear to be completely and utterly obliterated. If he can pull this off, Luke can do anything. 

His eyes start to hurt, but he tries valiantly to maintain eye contact with the lenses of father’s mask. 

As if he’s receiving a premonition, Luke knows that his father is about to overreact in a true fatherly fashion. 

“You are _inebriated.”_ He hisses through his voice vocorder. 

“No, I-” Luke gives up the lie before he can even start it. “I’m not that bad.” 

Vader stalks towards him, holding out a hand. “How many fingers do you see?” 

“Uhh…” Luke tries to focus on the swaying fingers in front of his face but he just ends up cross-eyed. “Four?” 

The gloved hand reaches out and grabs him by the chin. He turns his head left and right, and Luke resists the urge to slump into his grip. 

  
“Explain to me what you have done tonight, and how long this has been going on.” He’s using his Commander voice, Luke realises dejectedly. He’s in _so_ much trouble. 

Luke tries to pull his chin away at the sharpness of his tone. 

“Alright, keep your hat on.” He says, before he can stop himself. A detached, sober part of his brain watches as he smoothly takes his entire foot and shoves it into his own mouth, dooming himself with every word.“I had a few drinks with some friends.” 

  
“Keep my hat on?” Vader asks in a deadly tone. “I want the name of the establishment, and these so-called _friends_ of yours.” 

“I don’t remember.” It’s only a half-lie; The name of the cantina is already a blur in Luke’s mind. He can feel the furious waves coming off of his father like a sonar. Luke can only thank the force that Han didn’t drop him home himself. The wrath of Darth Vader isn’t something Luke wishes on anybody. 

“Reckless child. How much did you drink?” 

“More than three? I can’t really remember after that.” Luke supplies. “I’m really tired.” 

“The age minimum to drink on Coruscant is eighteen years old.” Vader says, letting go of Luke’s chin. He takes a stumble back, but manages to keep upright. “Do you have any idea of the dangers of excessive drinking?” 

“Yes.” Luke says, remembering the lessons at school. “I’m sorry,” He says after a moment. “I didn’t realise how strong it was.” 

There’s a tense pause as Vader considers his swaying son. 

“What was it that you were drinking?” 

“Uhm..” He tries to recall what Han had called it. “Corellian Twisters.” 

“There is your problem. They are deceptively weak tasting. The Corellian alcohol is one of the strongest in the galaxy.” 

He turns to look out of Luke’s window, as if he will be able to pinpoint the cantina Luke has spent his evening in. 

Despite the seriousness of the scolding he’s receiving, Luke struggles to keep his composure. He can’t help but imagine his father with one of those ridiculous cocktails, with the miniature umbrellas and fruits. 

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Vader spits, turning back around like a vengeful predator. “Is there something funny you’d like to tell me?” 

“No.” Luke sighs. “I really am sorry. I didn’t think you’d be home so early.” 

  
“So this is what you get up to when I am away?” He asks. “Gallivant around in the underbelly of the city, breaking the Imperial laws that I have dedicated my life to?” A gloved finger prods him in the chest, and he almost crumples like a flimsy at the pressure. “When you are sober, my son, we will be having a _very_ thorough conversation.” 

  
“Does that mean I can go to bed now?” Luke asks, rubbing his eyes. He’s never felt so tired in all his life. 

Vader observes him for a couple of moments before stepping to the side. 

“Very well. Ready yourself for bed.” 

Luke furrows his brows. His face feels numb as he moves it. 

“Are you going to stay here?” 

“As much of a lesson it would be to you, I will be here to help you when you inevitably fail at this simple task.” 

It takes Luke a few seconds to process the long words, but as soon as he does he turns to him with a drunken indignant frown. 

He bends to take off his boots, almost stumbling and rolling forwards. 

“I got it.” He says, more to himself. 

“That is obvious.” Came his father’s dry response. 

Luke manages to get out of his boots, jacket, but then it’s all over when it gets to his pants. He fumbles with the zip several times, before sighing in defeat. He’ll have to sleep in them, take them off in the morning. He goes to get under his covers, when he’s interrupted. 

“Luke, you cannot sleep whilst still fully dressed.” He had forgotten that his father was still there, standing with his arms crossed, almost smugly. 

  
Vader crosses over to his drawers, checking each one before he pulls out Luke’s pyjamas. There’s another tense stand-off, and before Luke can move his father is roughly and methodically re-dressing him, much to his disdain. 

  
“If you insist on acting like a child,” Vader said, pulling his arm through a sleeve. “Then you will be treated as such. You are lucky that I am feeling generous. I could have had you taken into a drunk tank to cool off for the night.” 

“Thank you, Lord bucket head.” Luke garbles with a drunken laugh. Vader’s head snaps to look at him with rage, hands pulling away from the buttons. When Vader turns him around, his head is lolling with sleep. 

With a sigh of exasperation, Vader places his son to bed. He pulls the covers around him, making sure he’s laying on his side. R2 will watch to make sure he isn’t unwell in the night.

It is a miracle that he found his way home unharmed. Vader doesn't entertain the thought of him lying passed out in an alleyway, or in the wreckage of a speeder accident. He stares down at his son's sleep-slackened face, feeling some of his anger disintegrating into the force around him. 

He firmly ignores the memory of Obi-Wan’s similar rough treatment in their temple quarters, all those years ago, when his drunken Padawan had discovered a similar Corellian cocktail. 

* * *

Luke feels like a herd of bantha have snuck into his room and taken turns to stomp on his head when he wakes the next morning. 

He buries his face into his pillow with a groan, closing his eyes against the brightness of his room. For a few moments he worries that he’s woken up with some sort of flu, but then he recalls the night before. Vague snaps of memory come to him, half-forgotten. Han buying him drink after drink, a sabacc game…and a horrible speeder ride home. His knee throbs from where he had fallen over the speeder-jack in the hangar. He pulls back the covers to assess the damage. 

At the sight of his pyjama-clad leg, Luke recalls being pulled about and dressed, and claps a hand over his eyes in mortification. His father had come home early! Oh, he’s going to hear about this until the day he dies. Luke can’t believe his bad luck. He recalls telling him to keep his hat on…Luke groans again at his drunken stupidity. If he wasn’t his son, he would have most certainly met the business end of his lightsaber for that little comment. Never coming out of his rooms is looking pretty much like his only option right about now. What had he been doing lurking in Luke's room like that? If he hadn't been so drunk, it would have terrified him. 

A chirping beep pierces Luke’s ears like it was somebody screaming at him. He sits up, feeling his stomach turn unpleasantly, and sees R2 at the end of his bed, keeping watch. 

“How much trouble am I in?” Luke says, his voice hoarse. Stars, he’s thirsty. 

  
R2 gave an amused whistle.

“That bad, huh?” 

Luke slowly gets out of his covers, feeling both hot and cold at the same time. He curses Han Solo with every fibre of his being, and those Twisters…his stomach backflips again at the faintest thought of them. He can still taste the sweet juice in his mouth, but it makes him want to heave in disgust. He’ll never drink again. 

On his bedside table is a tall glass of water and a blinking com link. Luke gulps down the whole glass in seconds, feeling some of liquid dribble down his chin. The com link’s notification probably from Han, checking if he got home okay. He’d read his message, then go face his father. He can picture it now, the lecture will go down in history. His father will outdo himself, Luke can feel it. He’s surprised at the kindness to leave him water; he had expected to be made to suffer through the hangover without any help. 

When he pressed for the message to play, he was surprised to see a palm sized Lord Vader, arms crossed in the pre-recording. 

“Luke.” He says. “I have been called away on Imperial business, but I am remaining on Coruscant. I will be available should you need me by my comlink, and I will return by this evening.” 

Luke’s ears prick as he watches his father pause. _Here it comes…_

“Your behaviour last night left much to be desired. I had hoped that you had grown out of your reckless capability to endanger yourself by now. It is incredibly fortunate that you were not operating a speeder last night, or you were not robbed or attacked. To say that I am disappointed in your choices last night would be an understatement.”  


Luke hangs his head at the scold. His father always knew how to cut him with his words. 

“When I am not here, I expect you to act as my representative. To cavort around Coruscant inebriated is a sure-fire way to not only get yourself hurt, but to embarrass both myself and the Emperor. I am grounding you for the next two weeks, and we will discuss your punishments at length when I return. I have always allowed you your independence, but this has made me doubt your ability to behave without supervision.” 

Two weeks? Luke sighs, but knows that he is definitely getting off lightly. But at his next words, he sighs again. There was more to come when he faced his father once more. 

“I would hope that this is your first time experiencing the affects of excessive drinking.” His father continued. “As such, I advise you to rehydrate, and consult a medical droid if you feel particularly dire. You may spend your day fixing the mess you made in the hangar with the speeder-jack.” 

And with that, the holo of his father faded away. 

Luke lay back down, no need to get up if his father wasn’t home. The speeder-jack could wait. He was thankful it was a weekend. 

Vader had been surprisingly lenient with him. Luke is incredibly relieved that he hadn’t been interrogated about who he’d been with last night. The thought of Han finding out who his father is sent Luke’s stomach into knots. He’d expected a much more harsher reprimand. Unless he’d received the worst of it last night. Luke could hardly remember what had happened. He recalled a threat to be placed in the drunk tank…

“Oh, stars!” Luke sits up so hard he feels a wave of nausea and falls back with a moan. “I called him Lord Bucket Head! How am I not dead?” 

The only reply he receives is R2’s beeping chuckle. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, how Vader is so intimately familiar with the potency of Corellian Twisters.

Anakin is still pulling his boots on when Obi-Wan appears from the fresher.

Anakin stops his ministrations and sits up expectantly. He doesn’t need the force to predict an oncoming lecture.

  
“And you’re certain you will be able to behave tonight?” Obi-Wan asks, straightening out his newly-pressed robes.

Anakin resists rolling his eyes. “Yes, Master. As I said, I’m happy to go in your stead.”

  
Obi-Wan doesn’t look convinced, but schools himself into his usual calm serenity. He liked to gripe that Anakin had aged him in their years of partnership, but Anakin often points out that he’s become far better at handling his stress and temper.

He’s made him more resilient, that’s all.

“I expect you to on your absolute best behaviour, Padawan.” Obi-Wan says. He steps over the scattering of droid parts and shrapnel to the dresser, reaching out for his lightsaber.

“Of course,” Anakin replies, finally getting his second boot on. He stands up, affronted. “When am I not?”

Obi-Wan turns on his heel and stares at him in exasperation. There’s a vicious twinge of satisfaction when he has to tilt his chin up slightly to glare at him. Anakin feels a primal sort of glee that he has managed to surpass his Master’s already considerable height.

“Don’t be obtuse, Anakin.” Obi-Wan says. “If I could accompany you, I would. As I cannot, you must remember that you are representing the entire Jedi order tonight.”

“I know, I know.” Anakin replies. He’s tempted to wrap an arm around his master’s shoulders to steer him out of the room, but knows better.

Obi-Wan has been called away to form a greeting party for a visiting Malastare delegate. He had meant to be accompanying Anakin to a celebration of a treaty signing, but his duty to the council and the Chancellor had come first. Palpatine had innocuously suggested that Anakin go in his stead, and that had been that.

“I’m not a child anymore.” Anakin persists, when it’s clear that Obi-Wan’s unease is not fading any time soon. “I’ll be perfectly polite, just like you taught me.”

  
“Your idea of polite differs to mine.” Obi-Wan says dryly. He looks as though he’s about to gear up into another lecture about etiquette and good social grace, but cuts himself off with a glance to the chrono. Thank the force for small miracles.

  
“I have to leave, but I will be back when you return.” Obi-Wan places a hand on Anakin’s shoulder. To the untrained eye, it is a gesture of affection, reassurance. Anakin knows better. He squeezes him warningly. “Behave, Padawan.”

“Yes, Master.” He says obediently.

Anakin catches his eye in the small mirror that Obi-Wan keeps for grooming his beard.

“Behave, Padawan.” He points to his reflection, putting on his best Coruscanti accent. He snorts to himself, grabbing his own lightsaber.

What could go wrong at a celebration of a kriffing treaty signing?

* * *

In hindsight, Anakin should have listened a bit more to Obi-Wan.

Wasn’t that the story of his life?

He knows that the celebration being held is to honour a new trade alliance…or was it a hyper speed lane? He’d been ushered in by a tall humanoid who’d introduced themselves as Taki. Taki had then proceeded to introduce him to a number of strange looking beings as Jedi Knight Skywalker. Much to his chagrin, he’d corrected her, and clenched his teeth as everybody collectively realised that the almighty Jedi had sent a _student._ Everything was already off to a fantastic start.

The convention centre is a glittering jewel of strange species and fashion. Anakin recollects his shock of first seeing the decadence of Queen Amidala, and then the rest of Coruscant. Call him an outer-rim kid, but Anakin still prefers the simplicity of his robes over the over-exaggerated fashion surrounding him. He watches an unfamiliar senator wince visibly from the heaviness of her ridiculous head-piece.

He tries in vain to escape socialising. Anakin isn’t usually so introverted, and being a Jedi has taught him to be courteous and calm in situations such as these. But, as loathe as he is to admit it, he’s terribly bored without Obi-Wan. He was always there to make things a bit more fun, and fit in far more easily than Anakin. The conversation around him is so quick and fluent that he can’t find an in, and so ends up standing by a wall as nonchalantly as he can. He ends up eying up all the security details, which isn’t much for such a large event. There is no sense of danger in the force, however, so Anakin rests easy. Part of him almost wishes for some chance to swing his lightsaber around and save the day, show these socialites that he’s _more_ than a student, but Anakin pushes the thought away into the force.

“Having fun?” 

Anakin turns to the woman, Taki, from earlier. He summons a smile but has the grace to look a little sheepish. He’d thought he had been inconspicuous, but he can tell she clearly saw him moping around against the back wall like a sullen child.

“Yes,” He answers. “Just taking a moment.”

Taki laughs, but it’s not unkind. “What do you think of the treaty?”

“Uh…” Anakin can almost feel Obi-Wan’s disapproval through the force. “It’s good?”

She laughs again. “Corellia’s agreement to increase trade will certainly benefit the Republic, of course. You Jedi tend to be above the politics of it all, I suppose.”

Anakin relaxes a little, glad that it hadn’t been a complete social blunder. He still hasn’t fully recovered from when he accidentally told a monarch he’d like to sleep with his daughter _and_ his wife.

“What do _you_ think of the treaty?” Anakin asks. Taki is mostly human, though he can see indents in her skin that may be gills, just above the hem of her collar. Part of his is curious, but he knows it can be considered rude to ask about somebody’s parentage.

“I think there will be implications,” She answers diplomatically. “But, what action is without that these days?”

“Indeed.” Anakin says, channelling Obi-Wan’s smooth Negotiation style. Taki smiles at him. It reminds him of the way the crechemasters used to when he said something outlandish with good intent.

The woman rubs her hands together. He tries his best not to stare when he realises that each finger is webbed.

“Our Corellian friends have brought a number of delicacies,” She says after a few moments of comfortable silence. She gestures over to a buffet table, manned by serving droids and milling guests that he had somehow missed. “Feel free to help yourself as you 'take a moment', Jedi Skywalker.”

He bows to her, grateful for a leave from all the strange social customs that still don’t sit right with him, despite being on Coruscant for a number of years. “Thank you.”

The table is the light at the end of the tunnel.

He sees plates of iced cakes, balls of fried cream, jars of sugar coated nuts, and fountains of drinks of every colour and fizz. Anakin tries to be casual and resists making a beeline for the food, and in doing so gets bogged down in the social hooplas of greeting people every five metres or so. When somebody pulls on his Padawan braid to enquire if it was detachable, Anakin gives up his charade and almost bolts for the decadent feast in front of him. He hadn’t had time to eat, and sparring all afternoon had left him hungrier than usual.

“Oh stars.” He says to nobody in particular.

“I know,” A large, rotunded Twi’lek man says from next to him. His hands are coated in shining grease as he ladles purple cream cake balls onto his plate. “I’m not even supposed to be in here. I was next door for a meeting, and I followed a serving droid in.”

Anakin glances over, frowning as he considers berating the man for the security breach, but stops himself. The man didn’t look particularly capable of inflicting any harm, and he vaguely recognised him from the senate.

Anakin began to pile up his plate, trying to keep it minimal, despite his growling stomach. When he had turned 15, Obi-Wan had been horrified at his eating habits. In a sitting, Anakin could put away more food than what should have been humanly possible. Not to mention the countless nights Obi-Wan had caught him red-handed in the pantry, looking for snacks with such a desperation that it would wake his Master up.

“Those are good,” The Twi’lek says through a mouthful of grease and icing. He gestures with a pudgy hand to a platter, and then to a pyramid of glasses. “Those too.”

Anakin eyes the dark frothing liquid hesitantly.

“Is it alcohol?” He asks the man, who pauses to belch into a handkerchief before answering.

“No. I’ve had several, and I’m completely fine.”

“Alright. Thanks.” Anakin manoeuvres his plate deftly before grabbing one glass by the stem.

He takes a seat in a plush arm chair, watching the other guests socialise and chat from a safe distance. Anakin can’t believe that he’s finally cracked the code to awkward gatherings. Nobody approached him whilst he was eating, and yet it was a completely acceptable thing for him to be doing.

The food is incredible. Anakin maintains his manners, eating slowly and delicately, but he wants nothing more than to tear through it all and go back for seconds. He washes it all down with the strange fizzing drink, which to his delight tastes sweet and almost spicy, in the best possible way. Corellians seem to like their food greasy, however, for Anakin ends up grabbing two more glasses to clear his throat from the cloying creams and sugar. When he had first left Tatooine, such delicacies had hurt his stomach. But years away from home had eroded any resistance to such tastes.

When Anakin is finished, he feels a strange new confidence overcome him. He passes off his plate to a passing serving droid, and returns into the slew of the crowd. Obi-Wan would want him to socialise, to be a good representation of the Jedi. He almost staggers; he must have been sat down longer than he’d thought, but he pushes on, regardless.

“So, what do you think of all this?” Anakin asks some time later, making a grand gesture to the hall around him, almost swatting a media droid out of the air in the process.

The man before him blinks twice. “I approve.”

“Yeah, but.” Anakin takes a long sip of his drink, his sixth? No, seventh cup. He usually wasn’t one for juice, but it was so cooling and refreshing he can’t get enough. All the talking he's been doing has made his throat rather dry. The man’s eyes follow the movement, and his mouth juts in a quick smirk, before going straight and thin again.

“But…?” The man prompts, and Anakin realises that he didn’t finish his sentence.

“What about the _implications?_ ” He asks, though he’s not quite sure what the implications are. It’s what that woman, Taki, had said earlier. And it sounded like the right thing to say.

“Jedi,” The man says, looking at him with a hesitant annoyance, as though he thought Anakin may be joking. “I am Garm Bel Iblis.”

“Oh, whoops.” Anakin reaches a hand out for him to shake. The man stares at it for a few moments, before reluctantly grabbing it. “I’m Anakin Skywalker.”

“Yes, I know.” He says disdainfully, letting go like Anakin’s skin was slimy and venomous. “What I meant, Padawan Skywalker, was that I am Senator Iblis. Of Corellia.”

“Ah.” Anakin says. Then his brain catches up with his mouth and he hurries to apologise. Kark. Karking hell. Why is he like this? “I’m so sorry, Senator, I didn’t know-”

“No, no.” The Senator says, smirking at Anakin’s discomfort. “I’d expect you to be rather…loose-lipped. Tell me, what ‘implications’ trouble you so?”

“Uh…” Anakin’s brain is melting. Quite literally. Like an overheating speeder engine. The man before him watches with poorly concealed enjoyment.

  
“Jedi Skywalker,” A smooth voice cuts in. “If I could just steal you for a moment.”

Anakin lets himself be pulled away, feeling strangely weightless, even with the pit in his stomach.

  
“How’s that phrase go? Putting one’s foot in one’s mouth?” Taki asks, once they’re both a safe distance away from the disgruntled senator.

Anakin runs a hand over his eyes, vision blurring for a long moment. “Stars, I’m an idiot. I can’t believe I just did that.”

Taki laughs. “You’re not an idiot.” She says kindly. He snorts, then covers the sound by sinking the rest of his drink. She gently pries away the glass, and oddly, Anakin lets her. “You are just very drunk.”

Drunk?

“What?” Anakin asks. He looks down at her webbed fingers, shocked to see they seem to have doubled. When he glances back up, it feels as though he just executed a daring mock stall in his speeder. Everything tilts, and he almost stumbles back.

Taki’s smile is sympathetic. She sniffs delicately at the small droplets left in the cup, gills fluttering. “Yes, as I suspected. Corellian’s are famous for their brewing of alcohol. Surely it was in a briefing you received?”

Anakin does not compute. Error. Please reboot.

“Briefing?” He mumbles. “No, my Master tried to tell me some information but…”

Taki places the glass on a serving droid’s tray as they circle around them. “How many of those glasses have you had tonight?”

Anakin stops to think for several seconds. “Seven?” He says lamely.

“That’ll certainly do it.” Taki says. “Corellian alcohol is very potent, even for Jedis. And I take it you don’t imbibe often?”

“Alcohol?” Anakin splutters. “That man said it was fine to drink!” He points at the Twi’lek, who notices all the attention and promptly makes a break for it, still holding a full plate in his hands as he disappears into a service corridor.

“Ah,” Taki says. She places a hand on his elbow, but the sensation is all off. Like he’s numbed with anaesthetic. “He always comes in when food is out. Really ought to do something about that. Twi’lek physiology is somewhat impervious to most alcoholic beverages.”

Anakin becomes very aware of how fuzzy and strange he’s feeling. How had he not noticed earlier? He’d downed multiple cups just when he was eating, and then…

Horror dawns on him, but then is intercepted by a sudden dizziness. _Think about it later,_ a tipsy voice in his head tells him. _If you reflect on the amount of bantha shit that's come out of your mouth tonight, you just might implode into space dust._

“Let’s get you home.” Taki is saying firmly. “I’m correct in assuming you reside in the Temple?”

The temple. Where Obi-Wan is waiting for him in their quarters. Kriff. He is so, so in trouble.

“I can get there.” He says adamantly.

It’s still early, he thinks. He might still be at the delegate meeting. If he goes now, he could be in bed sleeping innocently, with Obi-Wan none the wiser. He thanks the force that no other Jedi are in attendance. He’d never live down the shame. Jedi Master Plo Koon had apparently mistaken an orgy for some sort of off-world dance and tried to join in as a Padawan, and it was still a commonly told story, even now. Anakin won’t be able to face the younglings ever again. They're bigger gossips than anybody gives them credit for.

“You don’t mean to tell me you think you’re fit to pilot?” Taki laughs. “I won’t be responsible for a collision, Jedi. I’ll take you home.”

“But my speeder,” Anakin says weakly. Stars, he really must be drunk, because he lets her drag him away with minimal resistance. The lights all blur and people whip past, and it takes all of Anakin’s concentration not to slip and fall over his boots, which suddenly feel three sizes too big.

“I’ll get it dropped off,” Taki says as they reach the hall. She takes her long robe from the droid, and fishes out keys with a jangle. “Or you can come pick it up in the morning.”

“Okay.” Anakin says. Now that they’re stationary once more, Anakin feels a heave in his stomach, and almost gags. Taki pauses, glancing over at him in worry. He gives her a shaky smile. “I’m alright.” He says, more to assure himself.

“Come on,” She says, pulling him once more through a set of doors. Once the cool air hits them both, Anakin suddenly feels far more wobbly, with a strange giddy, like he wants to do an impulsive cartwheel or flip. Taki, for her lack of force sensitive, seems to sense that Anakin’s drunkenness has quadrupled, ushers him quickly into her parked speeder. It has a hatchback roof, which Anakin promptly smacks his head upon as he hobbles in.

“Easy,” Taki murmurs. She gets in hurriedly, reaching over into the glove compartment and pulling something out. Anakin looks down into his lap, feeling once more like he’s taking a daring plunge, or parachuting off of a cliff.

“What’s this?” He mumbles, or tries to. It comes out as an almost unintelligible slur. His hands feel all funny as he runs them over the strange texture. The dashboard lights come alive as she starts the engines up, and he sees the gauze of plastic.

“In case you’re sick.” Taki takes off smoothly, but Anakin still feels like he’s thrown into a laundry unit at high speed.

“Why would I be sick?” Anakin mumbles. He lays his head against the cool glass of the windowpane. When had he gotten so hot?

Taki merely laughs once more, changing lanes and jolting Anakin slightly. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just there in case you need it.” 

“I didn’t think this would be how my night would be going.” She says after a few moments of silence.

“M’ sorry.” Anakin murmurs. Talking makes him feel nauseous.

“No, no.” Taki replies. “You’ve made a dull night rather fun. Although, your comments to the Corellian Senator may have some repercussions.” She hums to herself, turning the throttles. Anakin watches the movement, thankful that she had stopped him from piloting. Even with his well-honed skills and reflexes, he can’t imagine being able to get home without at least one minor traffic accident.

“Then again,” She continues. “I think he’ll go easy on you. He’ll know better than most just how potent his planet’s drinks can be.”

Anakin mumbles, closing his eyes for a moment. He’s suddenly, incredibly tired. Just needed to rest for a moment…

“Hey,” A hand pats him on the shoulder and he jumps, snorting. Is he drooling right now? “We’re here.”

Anakin sits up, disorientated. He feels like when he’d breathed in an accidental gulp of noxious gas on a mission with Obi-Wan, all fuzzy and lethargic. He looks at the woman next to him for several seconds in confusion, before he remembers that he is in fact, absolutely out of his mind drunk, and needed to be flown home. 

  
“Thanks,” He says, throwing off the seat restraints. He can see the temple entrance, from where they’re parked on the guest landing pad.

“You’re welcome.” Taki replies. She leans over to help him as he struggles to open the door, and he almost falls as he finally frees himself from the low down vehicle.

She calls something out to him as she accelerates into a skylane, but Anakin can’t hear her.

“Alright.” He says to himself. He takes a deep breath, wincing as he smells the stench of ripe alcohol on his clothes and mouth. “Act natural.”

* * *

He can’t remember how, but Anakin makes it to his quarters. He leans up against the wall heavily, trying his best to focus on the keypad in front of him. But it’s like everything is moving back and fourth, and on his third attempt he smashes his forehead against it in frustration. Anakin hardly has a chance to look up when the door swishes open, and a very disgruntled Obi-Wan is stood on the threshold, wearing his sleeping robe.

“For Goodness Sake.” He says sharply at the sight of him. “What have you been doing, Padawan?”

Anakin smiles, in spite of himself. His Master is quite a sight, scandalised and in his pyjamas. He’s too far gone to register the look of indignant outrage in his eyes as he is assessed from head to toe.

“Sorry.” Anakin announces. Then throws up all over the floor and Obi-Wan’s slippers.

“Oh! Anakin!” Obi-Wan shouts, stepping back, inadvertently treading the colourful miasma of icing and stomach acid into their quarters.

“Stay there.” He barks, toeing off his shoes and storming over to the disposal unit.

Anakin closes his eyes once he’s done heaving. He begins to slide down the doorframe, too fuzzed to stand. “Where would I go?” He says serenely, feeling blissful and lethargic now that his stomach had stopped doing flips and somersaults.

“Do not test me.” Obi-Wan sounds downright murderous. Hands wrap around his upper arms, and Anakin is pulled forward with a rough yank. He feels his feet be moved, sidestepping the puddle of fluid on the floor.

“You are going to be the death of me, I’m certain of it.” Obi-Wan says. Anakin tries to say something, but he’s cut off.

“No, don’t talk. Force, Padawan. You stink.”

“I’m not even bad,” Anakin insists, opening his eyes to reveal that Obi-Wan is attempting to lug him into the fresher.

“You are royally drunk.” Obi-Wan snaps, reaching behind himself to turn on the overhead lights. “I really can’t believe you. Each time I think that you cannot surpass your stupidity, you go ahead and outdo yourself.”

“Anger is not the Jedi way.” Anakin intones chidingly, closing his eyes once more against the glare of light. “And I’m not _that_ drunk. If I was, could I do this?” He pulls away from the wall and makes an attempt to scuffle his feet on the floor in some semblance of a dance, but almost slips on the tiles.

“Come here.” Obi-Wan’s voice sounds strained with annoyance, and once more he reaches out to snag him by the tunic. Anakin has no choice but to allow himself to be moved, though all he wants to do is go to bed. He feels quick, nimble hands taking off his outer layers, and Anakin tries his best to be helpful. He goes for his belt, only to have his hand slapped away.

  
“Honestly…” Obi-Wan mutters to himself. “I leave you alone for two hours, and you manage to get completely annihilated on force knows what…”

“I didn’t know!” Anakin cries, barely aware that he’s being stripped bare until Obi-Wan kneels to rip off his boots. “I thought they were just normal drinks! The Corellians put them out with the food and-”

“Corellian alcohol?” Obi-Wan asks incredulously, throwing the rest of Anakin’s clothes into the laundry chute, and chucking his boots back into the small living room. “Did you not listen to anything I said before you left tonight?”

Does he even have to ask that? Try as he might, Anakin doesn’t have the best track record of following instructions.

  
Regardless, even the drunken stupor he’s currently in can’t quite absorb the stinging blows of his Master’s scathing commentary. Anakin sighs, naked and cold and not quite sure how he got to be that way.

  
“I’m sorry, Master.” He says, sounding truly forlorn. “I really didn’t mean to embarrass you or the Jedi.”

Obi-Wan huffs a long-suffering sigh. He doesn’t say anything however. Anakin groans internally. He’s probably scripting and drafting a truly terrible lecture for first thing in the morning. There would be no mercy.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” Obi-Wan says finally. He gives Anakin another rough tug and gets him under the spray of the showerhead.

“I don’t feel well.” Anakin mumbles. How did his head hurt so badly already? Wasn’t that part supposed to come the next day? He hangs his head against his chest, feeling Obi-Wan’s rough hands clinically cleaning him with a wash cloth.

“You’ve nobody to blame but yourself.” Obi-Wan comments, turning him this way and that. “I have no sympathy, Anakin.”

“How did you even get home?” He asks sometime later, when he turns off the water and grabs a towel from the rack, wrapping it quickly around his shivering Padawan.

  
Anakin shrugs, looking contemplative. “Some lady from the party took me home. Wouldn’t let me pilot.”

Obi-Wan hums. “I should hope not. Now, dry off, brush your teeth, and I’ll get you some clothes.”

When he returns to the fresher, Anakin is slumped in his towel on the toilet seat, snoring against his hand. His toothbrush is still loosely clutched against his chest.

“Come on,” Obi-Wan coaxes. “You need to get dressed.”

Anakin mumbles something unintelligible into his hand, but doesn't shift.

Obi-Wan should be detached, firm. Wake him and throw him into bed, and that be the end of it. But, almost unwillingly, he recalls a younger Anakin, hiding in the fresher, washing his red cheeks before bed, because being seen crying was the ultimate embarrassment. He always was more lonely at nighttime, creeping into his room to quietly admit that he could not sleep, that nightmares plagued his mind. That his room was too big and quiet, and he was used to sleeping tucked up with his mother. 

So, even though he shouldn’t, because his very-much grown Padawan should know better, Obi-Wan manoeuvres Anakin into some clothes, pours him a glass of water, and gets him into bed, mumbling and snoring the entire way.

“Good night.” Obi-Wan says, going to leave.

Anakin rolls over, and Obi-Wan remembers just how obnoxiously he used to toss and turn, all those years ago, when he would creep into the safety of his Master’s bed.

“G’Night, Obi-Wan. Sorry again.” He says into the pillow. 

He steps away to summon a cleaning droid, sighing. 

A reprimand is in order. He could have gotten himself hurt, or crashed his speeder in a foolhardy attempt to pilot home. Obi-Wan will have to thank whichever godsend managed to persuade him not to fly himself back to the temple. He’s old enough to know better, to be less naive. So many things could have gone wrong tonight. Obi-Wan doesn’t even want to think about the social faux-pas committed at the treaty celebration in his absence. Tomorrow will bring a new Palawan-related headache, or even a new grey hair. 

But he can't find it in his heart to be truly upset. Obi-Wan's just thankful that his wilful, headstrong, ridiculous _man-child_ apprentice is safe and sound. 


End file.
